


A Wound Too Long Allowed to Bleed

by Winterlyn_Dow



Series: The City that Care Forgot [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Bar Scene, F/M, Fencing, Flashbacks, Heartbreak, Modern Era, Pinterest board, Profanity, Unrequited Love, Washington D.C.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22226314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterlyn_Dow/pseuds/Winterlyn_Dow
Summary: While away at her exclusive college in the mountains of Virginia, Arya dates a man introduced to her by one of her fencing teammates, but she is consumed by her studies, her training, and thoughts of a certain German back home in New Orleans, so the new relationship never amounts to much.Aegon Targaryen recalls it differently.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Aegon VI Targaryen
Series: The City that Care Forgot [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/258829
Comments: 22
Kudos: 177





	A Wound Too Long Allowed to Bleed

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is the 7th one-shot in the series The City That Care Forgot, but it's really more like part 1.5 because it takes place amid Arya's opening story, A Girl Too Long Away from Home. In that story, Arya briefly recalls dating Aegon but says "it hadn't led to much." This piece delves into the story behind that relationship and looks at how different people with a common experience can interpret it in completely different ways.
> 
> I was inspired by The Airborne Toxic Event's Sometime Around Midnight. I was listening to it recently and it suddenly struck me that it was *completely* about Arya and Aegon. This one-shot is basically my translation of that song into Aegon-n-Arya-ese (and I shamelessly admit, it's almost a line-for-line interpretation).
> 
> This is also my first rated M story, mostly for profanity but also "sexual situations." It's not explicit, but it's a little much for a "T" rating.

* * *

_And all of these memories come rushing like feral waves to your mind…_

* * *

He stares into the bathroom mirror, checking his hair, his teeth. The actions are perfunctory and automatic. Somewhere in his brain, it registers that he is put together enough to leave the house, but he continues to stare, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans, scoffing at his own impeccable posture, the way his shoulders sit square and straight, the line of them meeting his spine at a perfect ninety degrees. He shakes his head, sneering at himself, as if his carriage, his very _build,_ is somehow pretension, or artifice, or arrogance.

_He's begun to do this, to question himself, to second guess everything. He never had before, but now, he cannot seem to help it._

_That's her. She did this._

He slumps a little, purposefully, rounding his shoulders, watching the way his shirt wrinkles and folds in on itself as he does. It's more than he can stand, though, and he pulls himself straight again, using one hand to smooth the fabric of his button down, breathing deeply.

He shakes his head, frowning at his reflection.

"Get your shit together, Aegon," he mutters, then turns to leave his bathroom, flipping the light switch off as he goes.

As he skips down the stone steps outside of the front door, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He reaches for it, pulling it out and staring down at the screen as his feet meet the bricked path that leads him to the sidewalk.

_Daenerys._

He answers the call.

"Hello, Dany."

"Are you coming?"

"Hello to you, too, Aegon," he replies, pitching his voice higher to mimic her. "How are you?" His car is parked on the street, halfway down the block because his neighbor had apparently had a dinner party last night and that was the closest space he could find after spending his evening in the law library. He quickens his pace.

"Yes, alright, I'm sorry," she says, properly chastened. "How are you?"

"Me?" He shrugs as though she can see him. "Never better."

"Liar." They are both quiet for a moment, each contemplating her accusation. He can hear Dany inhaling before she asks again, "So, are you coming?"

"I'm getting into my car now." He pulls the key fob from his pocket and hits the _unlock_ button. There are two sharp, quick chirps as the alarm disarms on the red Jaguar F-type coupe. Aegon slides gracefully behind the wheel. As the engine begins to purr, there is a pause as the car's blue tooth engages and suddenly, he hears Dany through the Jaguar's speakers.

"Good. Don't be late. I'll never forgive you if you miss my last tournament ever."

"I won't be late."

"Thank you. I know it's not easy for you."

He glances in his review, then at his side mirror, and pulls smoothly out into the street, taking off with a burst of speed completely inappropriate for the shady thoroughfares of such a toney neighborhood.

"It's not a big deal," he replies, realizing he _is_ a liar after all.

* * *

He arrives at the arena and gives his name at the box office. Dany has left him a ticket. Competitors are allowed a certain number for family. He finds his seat and scans the competition floor below, studying groups of fencers, trying to pick out the Remmings team.

 _Columbia. Duke. Harvard. Notre Dame._ The athletes are warming up, each team clustered near their own banner which has been draped on the wall behind them. _Penn State. Incarnate Word. United States Air Force Academy. Stanford. Ah, there!_ Halfway around he spots the scarlet and gold banner. _Eleanor Remmings College._

He sees Dany. Her white-blonde hair makes her easy to spot. Aegon smiles to himself but then his smile freezes.

Because he sees _her,_ too.

He's too far away to see the deep silver of her eyes, the delicate bow of her upper lip, or the heavy fringe of her lashes, but he knows it's her. He can tell because he knows her form as well as his own, whether in jeans, or a skirt, or fencing whites. _He knows her form in nothing at all._ He can tell simply by the way she moves, cat-like, languid. Her mask is perched atop her head and she turns then, seeming to stare straight at him. He knows she can't possibly see him, not at this distance; not under the bright lights which shine on the floor, on her, making the seats of the arena appear dim to her. But still, the pace of his heart quickens.

He curses himself for it.

 _I'm here for Dany, that's all I care about,_ he tells himself, and he blows out a breath and pretends it has nothing to do with _her_.

And yet, when Daenerys Targaryen is eliminated in the second round in her division, he stays. He stays when he could have gone (ought to have gone). He stays, and watches Arya Stark, Remmings' freshman phenom, dismantle her competition, round after round. He finds himself leaning forward, forearms resting on his thighs, studying her moves.

He'd fenced himself some, when he was younger, so he appreciates the sport in a way others cannot. He understands the technique, the strategy, and enjoys watching competitive matches. But watching Arya is something altogether different. She is more than a talented athlete. She is…

_Beauty distilled into motion._

_Music made flesh._

_Precision and focus and speed defined._

_And…_

_A holy fucking terror._

It is hard to believe someone so small can be so intimidating. She is relentless.

And yet, that is only one side of her. He knows another side…

 _No,_ he tells himself sternly, pushing his memories aside.

At the end, as the awards are being presented and Arya is being handed the top prize, Aegon fishes out his phone and sends Dany a text, a selfie with the awards presentation in the background so he can't be accused of skipping out.

 _Great job, I'm so proud of you,_ he types beneath the photo. He sends it, then thinks a moment before typing out another text. _Tell Arya I said congratulations._ His finger hovers over the _send_ button for far too long. Finally, he hits the back button and deletes that last without sending, deciding it's better not to go down that particular road.

_(Ignoring the part of him that is demanding to go down that road.)_

He stands and stretches, but before he can exit his row, his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen. Dany has answered his text.

_Do you have plans tonight?_

He panics. He can't join some team dinner or meet her group in a hotel ballroom for a tournament after-party. He simply can't.

 _Going out with the boys,_ he replies, and, so as not to add another lie to his list of sins for the day, he calls one of his old fraternity brothers on his way out of the arena.

"Duck," Aegon says when his friend answers the phone, "what are you doing tonight?"

* * *

Duck, Hal, and Harry are already at the bar, two rounds in by the time Aegon arrives.

"Took you long enough," Duck says as Aegon drops into a chair at their table. "You've got some catching up to do."

"Saturday night traffic, coming from the arena? _Murder,_ " Aegon replies dramatically.

"Saturday night traffic anywhere in this town is murder," Hal scoffs. "Harry, it's your turn. You've got next round."

Harry, the most humorless of the group, gives Hal a sour look but gets up and goes to the bar. It's crowded, but they're regulars and they tip well, so it doesn't take long before he returns with four mugs of Guinness.

"Cheers," Duck says, lifting the dark draft. Aegon's is gone in a few long swallows. Duck laughs at him. "Whoa, son, I didn't mean you needed to catch up this instant!"

Aegon just says he'll get the next round and heads for the bar before his friends can remark further. When he returns with the beers, Hal is in the middle of telling a med school story, something about an old man, a woody, and a backwards hospital gown that leaves little to the imagination. Everyone is laughing like it's the funniest thing they've ever heard and somehow, it irritates Aegon. He takes a gulp of his beer to hide his frown. He doesn't fool Duck, though, and after a while, the large man pulls back and sets his wide shoulders. He's in full _Capt. Rolly Duckfield III_ mode now; serious, authoritative, drawing on his military background.

"What's up with you tonight, brother? Usually Harry is the one trying to ruin all the fun."

"Hey!" Harry protests.

Aegon's purple eyes stare down into his beer. After a few seconds he shrugs. "Just in a mood, I guess. It was… a tough week."

"You were the one who wanted to go to law school," Hal reminds him. "Connington would've taken you on at the firm right after graduation, and you coulda been lobbying on the Hill now, making fat stacks…"

"Not everything is about money, Haldon," Aegon quips.

"Says the guy with the trust fund and a rent-free house in Georgetown and a car that's worth more than I'll make in three years of residency working eighty-hour weeks," Hal shoots back.

Aegon just glares at him.

"Alright, fellas," Duck speaks up, his tone soothing, "let's just enjoy our drinks and remember how lucky we all are to have such great friends."

Aegon drains his beer then says, "I need something stronger." He pushes back from the table and walks away without looking at his companions. He knows he's being prickly, that he's bad company, and he shouldn't inflict his mood on them, but he doesn't seem to be able to help himself. The feeling inside of him, the hurt and confusion, is still too sharp, even as he denies it's there at all. _He just needs to dull it_.

"Old Fashioned," he tells the bartender. Two minutes later, the glass is in his hand and he stands at the bar to drink it.

The place is getting more crowded by the minute, typical for a Saturday night, and he surveys the room. It's a mix of Georgetown students and young professionals (who had likely been Georgetown students until fairly recently. Like his friends). It's a classic pub, done all in dark wood, the bar long and smooth with age. There's usually a band on the weekends, but it's still a bit early for them to go on.

After a time, Aegon catches the bartender's eye and taps his empty glass, indicating he wants another. The bartender, a man who goes by the unlikely name of Rusty, nods and a moment later, Aegon is drinking a fresh cocktail. He's beginning to feel pleasantly warm and buzzed. The tension drains from his neck, then his shoulders, and all at once, he's less annoyed. The band takes the stage and starts to set up. He turns to watch them, which is why he does not immediately notice Duck has moved to stand next to him at the bar.

"So, it's just you and me now," Duck says in a low voice. "You wanna tell me what's really bothering you?" Duck is like the big brother Aegon never had, the senior pledge-master to both Aegon and Harry when they were merely freshmen at Georgetown. He thinks of himself as older and wiser. And, Aegon admits, perhaps he is.

Well, he's definitely older.

Aegon sighs and turns to his friend. "Honestly, Duck, it's just something stupid and I'd rather not talk about it. But the drinks are helping."

His friend laughs. "Then let's have another."

They switch to bourbon and rocks. Three songs in, Aegon vaguely realizes he'll have to Uber home, unless he fancies a long walk. He's certainly not driving. But, it's Saturday. He had planned to study in the morning, but he has no other obligations, so the afternoon works just as well.

Such are his thoughts when the door to the bar opens and a bunch of Notre Dame students pour in, marked by their navy and gold pullovers. He rolls his eyes, thinking, _What are they even doing here?_ The bar is a long way from South Bend. And then something clicks in his head. _The tournament._ Their team must be staying in a hotel nearby. They filter in, rowdy and obnoxious, and Aegon recalls that the men's team had swept the awards in their division. They were obviously in a celebratory mood.

Just as he is about to turn his back to them and watch the band again, someone else enters, a tall man with blonde hair nearly as pale as Aegon's own. He wears a Notre Dame sweater, identifying him as one of that group's number, but it is who enters with him that catches Aegon off-guard.

A petite girl, her chestnut hair caught up in a loose French braid, not wearing Irish colors (and why would she be? She's the star fencer for the Eleanor Remmings team, not a Notre Dame student at all. _So why is she here with them_? Aside from that, she's too young to drink legally, so why is she in the bar _at all?_ )

Aegon's glass is caught halfway to his mouth, frozen in place by the scene before him. Arya Stark, in a white dress with thin straps, all her pale shoulders and long neck exposed, stands out like a snow maiden amid all the navy and gold which surrounds her. She is laughing at something her blonde companion is saying, and he reaches out to touch her elbow for emphasis. Aegon's lip curls into an approximation of a feral snarl.

Duck takes in the change in Aegon's demeanor. "What is it?" he asks, turning to follow Aegon's gaze across the room. "Oh." A look of understanding colors his features. He pauses, then adds, "So that's her."

He does not need to specify which _her_ he means. Aegon has dated plenty, has even had a couple of longer-term relationships, but there is only one _her,_ and all his friends know it.

"Did you know she was going to be here?" Duck asks suspiciously. "Is that why you asked us to meet you?"

"What?" Aegon's head snaps around and he looks irritated. "No! I came here to get _away_ from her!" He says it without thinking, and immediately he regrets his words. They are true, but he does not relish revealing his weakness to his friend by admitting he has run away like a coward to drown his sorrows in alcohol. He can't meet Duck's eyes, so he turns back toward the door; back toward the girl.

Arya Stark is moving among the crowd she'd come with, laughing, stopping to speak with a group of them who'd found a table, bending over to murmur in the ear of a dark-haired man (Aegon recognizes him as one of the medalists from earlier) who convulses in laughter at whatever it is she's saying. Behind her, the blonde man, the one she'd entered with, smiles as he traces her with his eyes, watching her interact with his teammates.

And then the dark-haired man grabs her around her waist, pulling her into his lap. The move surprises her, as evidenced by the look on her face and her squeal. Aegon can't hear it, not over the band and the crowd, but he can read it well enough. He supposes it's meant to look like horseplay, like friendly teasing, but Aegon has seen enough douche-moves to know when someone is just trying to cop a cheap feel. The Notre Dame asshole tickles her ribs and she squirms, laughing, trying to catch her breath.

It makes Aegon's blood boil.

He slams his glass onto the bar hard enough that Duck flinches. It's a miracle the thing doesn't shatter, but even so, the drink sloshes up the sides, spilling over a little.

"Alcohol abuse," the older man remarks, trying to distract Aegon with a joke. He gets no response, so he changes tactics. "Why don't you come sit down, man?"

Aegon thinks this is a good idea, and he nods, even as he is still staring at Arya. She's extricated herself from the asshole's lap and has moved on to speak with someone else. He means to turn and follow Duck back to the table, he really does, but he _can't,_ because she looks up then and she _sees_ him.

 _Shit!_ he thinks, and he's paralyzed, held in place by her gaze. Her eyes widen in surprise and they look at each other across the bar. After some indeterminate amount of time (Aegon knows logically it can't be more than a few seconds, but it _feels_ like a million years), her brows lift, almost in question, as if she wants his permission to approach. He does nothing, says nothing, makes no move. Because he can't. He's just staring. Like an idiot.

She says something to the table she'd stopped at and nods toward him. Then she straightens and starts to cross the room.

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_

He's not sure if it's the liquor or the shock or if he's dying of a heart attack, but the room is spinning and he's not entirely certain if he's standing or if he's fallen or if this is all just some drug-fueled dream. His heart is aching, literally aching, as he watches her approach, and he is having to concentrate in order to breathe. There's something like unbridled joy welling up within him, _she's here, she's going to talk to him, finally,_ but there's also resentment mixed with a growing terror.

_He isn't prepared for this; he isn't prepared to see her. All of the things he'd wanted to say, all of the things he'd thought of, that he'd seethed to himself in the shower or late at night when he couldn't sleep, all the questions and accusations, seem to dissolve and his mind is blank. What the fuck is he supposed to say to her?_

"Aegon," Duck says quietly. It may not sound like it, but it's a question. _Are you alright? Are you going to be alright?_

Aegon has no chance to respond, because she's there, standing right in front of him, her dainty toes peeking out from the silvery straps of her heeled sandals, and the bourbon on his own breath suddenly mixing with the honeysuckle of her shampoo. It's a scent so familiar, so heady… He wills himself not to close his eyes and inhale.

"Aegon Targaryen," she says, smiling her small, _Arya_ smile. "I never thought I'd run into you."

"No," he agrees, amazed that he's able to conjure a word. It doesn't even sound strained. _Smile, jackass._ He smiles, a crooked little half-smile, presenting a reasonable facsimile of a man completely aware of the absurdity of this chance encounter.

_When in reality, all he's truly aware of are these facts: she's standing in front of him, and he can smell honeysuckle, and he wants desperately to sweep her up in his arms and kiss her._

Arya sighs, still smiling, and it's a happy sound, as though she is pleased to see him.

_Is she pleased? Is it an act? He isn't sure._

She tilts her head and leans toward him, extending an arm. He knows she means to give him a quick hug, and he knows he can choose to mimic her posture, leaning in quickly, one arm extended for a brief, friendly half-squeeze. But then she touches him, and his fingertips graze the cool skin of her shoulder, and all he can see is her lying curled against him, her smooth back pressed into his bare chest, her dark hair caressing his cheek and neck, her fingers laced through his, their hands resting together on her belly. He is seized by the memory and slips both arms around her, pulling her in close, resting his chin on the top of her head and closing his eyes.

_And he feels…_

_Whole._

He's reluctant to release her, but he's already held on too long and he can feel the eyes of his friends at the table boring into him. Duck is standing back, arms folded across his chest, expectant.

The girl pulls away, laughing lightly, and Duck clears his throat.

"Arya," Aegon says, "this is Rolly Duckfield, a good friend."

"Duck," the large man corrects, holding out a hand. She takes it and they shake.

"Nice to meet you, Duck," she replies. "Do you two know each other from law school?"

"No, we met when the Targaryen Prince here was a freshman in college."

"The _Targaryen Prince?_ " she laughs, looking at Aegon quizzically.

"It's a long, stupid story," Aegon says quickly, shooting his friend a look, "involving hazing rituals and cheap beer and Duck was just leaving."

"I never hazed you," Duck protests, "I merely instructed. And you're the better man for it." He winks. "Arya, it was very nice to meet you." He bows his head slightly then makes his way back to Hal and Harry.

Aegon and Arya watch him go, then turn to face one another.

"It's good to see you," she says. "How've you been?"

_How has he been? He has to stop himself from scowling. Angry and hurt, that's how he's been._

"Good. Really good. Busy, but, you know, good." _He hopes he sounds convincing._

She nods. "Same. All my free time is spent training. And my class load is really heavy this semester… I mean, not like yours. I know law school is tough."

He shrugs, then changes the subject, telling her he saw her at the tournament. She laughs, embarrassed, and says it wasn't her best performance.

"You took first place," Aegon retorts, his brows furrowed. "No one else even came close. Dany says your coach thinks you'll make the Olympic team. She's so jealous!"

"Jealous?" Arya seems incredulous.

"I mean, she's happy for you, but yeah, she's jealous."

"I can't imagine Daenerys Targaryen being jealous of _anyone._ " She leans in close, conspiratorial. "I can't imagine _any_ Targaryen being jealous of anyone!"

Aegon glances across the room at the blonde man who'd arrived with the girl. He's leaning over the table with the dark-haired man, the whole group of them engaged in lively conversation, but his eyes flick toward Aegon and Arya and he studies them quickly before looking back to his friends.

"Can't you?" Aegon murmurs. And then he thinks that he hadn't meant to get into any of this tonight, but here she is, and he may never have another chance ( _oh, God, if he could only have another chance_ ). "Hey, can I ask you something?"

He senses the shift in her at his words. Her ease slips away, and she stiffens, just a little. He picks up his glass while he awaits her answer, sipping at the bourbon, now watered down a bit with melting ice.

_Bourbon. When Scotch has always been his drink. He hadn't even thought twice when he'd ordered it. This was her, just like his questioning himself was her. Without trying, without meaning to, she'd unmade him, then made him again, but just a little different._

_And then she'd left her creation without explanation._

"Sure."

A more charitable man might have marked the hesitation in her voice and reconsidered his plan. They certainly didn't need to hash this all out right here, right now, in the middle of a busy bar in D.C. on a Saturday night. In fact, they aren't required to do a post-mortem at all.

_But it isn't a post-mortem he's after; it's a resuscitation. And if she can only understand what it is he feels for her, then they might have a chance._

And so, despite her hesitation, despite his own discomfort, he presses on.

"Why did you disappear on me?"

The girl looks flummoxed. "I didn't disappear."

"Yes, you did," he says, nodding his head. "Yes, you did."

Arya looks up at him, and it's not exactly guilt he sees on her face, but it's _something._ Regret? _He dares to hope._ She opens her mouth, meaning to say something, but then stops.

"Go ahead," he encourages gently. "It's okay. I really want to know. Go ahead and say it."

The girl pinches her lips together and her eyebrows knit for a moment. She stares at his chest, working through the words she wants to say. She licks her bottom lip then meets his eyes.

"I could tell…"

"Tell what, Arya?"

She sighs, barely audible in the bar. "I could tell you were falling in love."

 _Falling in love?_ He almost bursts out laughing. _Not falling, precious. Fallen._

_From almost the instant he'd laid eyes on her._

"And I knew we couldn't…" she continues, her voice mournful.

" _You_ couldn't," he snaps, and it comes out harsher than he intends.

"Aegon…"

To hear his name on her tongue is misery. And ecstasy.

_"Aegon," she'd breathed into his neck, arching against him. He looked down at her face, the glow of the moonlight through the window on her skin rendering her a ghostly white. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and turned her face to the side, her eyelids fluttering closed. He groaned, then whispered to her._

_"You're so beautiful."_

_The words weren't enough for what she was, but they were the best his tongue could form at the time, and the other things that occurred to him seemed likely to scare her or confuse her._

_Because all he could think of was how like a porcelain figurine she was, smooth, cool, and perfect. And he treated her as carefully as a porcelain figurine, no matter how much his body cried out for him to abandon his control, because he didn't know what her experience had been, and he didn't feel it was his place to ask._

_And so, he was careful, so careful, as careful as one would be with a priceless porcelain figurine._

_How ironic, then, that it was he who would be shattered._

"I really thought we were on the same page," she is explaining. He blinks the memory away, trying to focus on her words. "I mean… you never _said…_ " Her tone is imploring, her eyes begging him to understand. "And you never… asked what we were. You never asked what I wanted."

 _She's right. He hadn't. Because he was too afraid of the answer. Maybe part of him believed that if he didn't hear her answer, then this wouldn't_ be _the answer._

Aegon takes a sip of his drink then rubs his hand across his mouth, his chin. He changes his line of inquiry.

"Weren't we good together?" Somewhere in the back of his mind, there is a warning bell, telling him that there are some things he probably shouldn't say, but the bourbon is making it hard for him to hear it. "No, not good. _Amazing._ It was for me. Wasn't it for you?" When she doesn't answer him, he prompts her, willing her to remember what he remembers, and to long the way he longs. "I came to visit, and it snowed, and we made that huge snowman in the quad, remember? And when _Gone with the Wind_ was showing at that historic theater near Luray, I surprised you with tickets because you'd told me how much you love those old Technicolor movies."

"Aegon…"

_"Aegon," she'd said, her voice hoarse, and he dropped his forehead against her shoulder, tracing her collarbone with his nose, breathing her in. She was trembling and he dragged his hand along her arm, warming her._

_Slow, careful. So careful._

He swallows.

"We went apple picking in Charlottesville and stayed in that bed and breakfast." _And the moonlight through the window on her skin had rendered her a ghostly white._

She bites her lip and he can tell she remembers what he remembers. "We _were_ good together," Arya admits.

"Then why? What was it?"

She's struggling to explain. "It's not just one thing."

"Tell me. Please. What can I change? What can I do differently?"

"There's nothing you can change. Why _would_ you change? You're so witty, and intelligent, and handsome. You're well-mannered and thoughtful."

"And kind to animals and respectful of the elderly," he adds sarcastically.

"Well, you _are._ There is not a thing wrong with you. You're perfect in every way that matters. But…"

"But what?

"But not for me." She smiles sadly at him.

"That doesn't make sense."

"It does. Just not to you."

"I don't understand." He finishes his drink. "This can't be all there is. I can't… I can't feel this way for no reason."

"I'm sorry," she says, reaching out and placing a hand on his forearm. He looks down, staring at her fingers as they wrap around his sleeve, squeezing slightly to convey her sincerity. "I never meant to hurt you. I wish it could be different."

"Yeah," he laughs bitterly. "Me too."

"I don't want you to be hurt."

Though he can tell she means it, he's not prepared to let her off so easy. "Well, there's what you want things to be, and there's the way things are."

"I thought by ending things when I did, we'd avoid…"

"What? My messy feelings?" He's frowning but there's no real anger behind his words.

"I'm sorry," she says again.

"Don't fucking pity me, Arya."

His ego is bolstered as he says it, as though he is restoring his own dignity by refusing to be cajoled, but deep down, where that ignored warning bell lives, he suspects he is merely behaving like a petulant child. His suspicion is confirmed when he sees the look on Arya's face as she pulls her hand away from his arm. The absence of her touch _burns._

Aegon shakes his head. "Oh, Arya, I… I apologize. That was rude. Seriously, I apologize."

"No worries," she replies softly, all forgiveness and sympathy. But there is this wall between them now, he can sense it, and there's nothing he can do about it. "I'd better get back to my friends. But really, it was good to see you, Aegon."

_"Aegon," she'd said so quietly he nearly missed it over the sound of his own breathing. He'd slipped his hands beneath her, to pull her closer. He couldn't get close enough, no matter how he tried. It was never enough. He pressed his lips to her forehead and squeezed his eyes shut so tight, it made his head hurt._

He doesn't say anything as she turns and crosses the room again, back to where the boisterous Notre Dame fencing team awaits. _He doesn't say anything. He just watches her go._

Absently, he walks back to his own friends, dropping into his chair, ignoring Duck's look of concern and Hal's raised eyebrows. His back is to the door, so he doesn't immediately understand when Harry remarks, "Good."

"Good, what?" Aegon asks tiredly.

"Good, she's leaving."

His thoughts have become increasingly muddled as the beer and bourbon chase through his veins and it takes a moment for him to decipher his friend's meaning. And then it strikes him.

_She's leaving._

And he has no idea when he'll see her again. Or, if he'll see her again.

Briefly, he wars with himself. Part of him wants to borrow Harry's sentiment. _'_ _Good,'_ he could say _. 'That's that.'_ But part of him feels sick at the idea that what he's just said to her, and what she's just said to him, is _it_. The end of it all. And he is possessed with the notion that he needs to see her.

 _He's just seen her. But still, he_ needs _to see her. This can't be it._

Aegon stands, holding the back of his chair to steady himself.

"What are you doing?" Duck asks, his words a caution. "Aegon, don't."

Aegon glares at Duck, then turns and strides toward the door. His friends rise, unsure what he intends, and follow, but he is well ahead by then. Hal, Harry, and Duck find Aegon standing on the sidewalk, staring down the block as a blonde man opens the door of a cab and Arya slides into the backseat. The man's hand is on her waist, steadying her.

"Arya!" Aegon calls, but it's too late, and she is too far away. The man climbs into the back seat of the cab after her and then they are gone. Aegon sinks to a squat, dropping his head and breathing in and out, the sound a little shaky.

"Aegon, don't," Duck says, but this time, it's not a caution. It's sympathy. He puts a large hand on Aegon's shoulder and squeezes.

"Let's get you home," Hal suggests, helping his friend stand.

"I'll just walk," Aegon says, and his voice is heavy with inebriation and defeat.

"That's okay," Hal says. "I can drive. Where'd you park?"

"Whatever, man," Harry says. He is angry for Aegon and sneers after the cab. "Good riddance."

Aegon stares at him. "What?" His tone is clipped. His fuse is short. Duck senses it.

"Harry," the large man warns, but Harry isn't done yet.

"Yeah, well, fuck her anyway!"

Before anyone can stop him, Aegon grabs Harry by his collar and pushes him against the brick exterior of the bar.

" _What?_ "

"What's your problem, man?" Harry demands, shoving Aegon off him. "Some girl pisses all over you and you're mad at _me_?"

Duck gets between them. "Harry, you need to back off."

"Tell _him_ to back off," Harry fumes.

"Harry, I swear to God…" Aegon growls.

"He's drunk, and upset," the large man explains calmly, looking at Harry. He has a palm pressed flat against Aegon's chest, holding him back. He turns to face Aegon then. "You're drunk and upset. We know you don't mean it."

"Like Hell we do," Harry grumbles.

Duck turns and gives Harry _the look,_ and Harry huffs.

"Fine," he says. "Whatever. I came to drink some beers and watch the band, not babysit Aegon fucking Targaryen." He backs away a couple of steps, looking unhappy, then leaves them, walking into the bar.

Aegon is still mad, but more at himself than Harry. He knows he overreacted, and he knows he'll have to apologize tomorrow.

"Let me drive you home," Hal offers again. "Where are your keys?"

Aegon starts to object, to say again that he'll just walk and come back for his car tomorrow. His townhouse is barely a mile away. But he sees the looks on their faces, and he doesn't feel like fighting anymore. He just feels tired, and he wants to go home. He pulls the keys from his pocket and hands them to Hal.

Duck says, "I'll hit you up tomorrow."

Aegon nods, feeling numb, and he and Hal walk down the block together. They get into the Jag. Aegon reclines the seat a little and as he lays his head back and closes his eyes, he thinks to himself how strange it feels, because he's always been the driver. He's never ridden in the passenger seat before.

* * *

**_Sometime Around Midnight—_** The Airborne Toxic Event


End file.
